Too Far Gone
by Lady Sam Mallory
Summary: A short story about the first meeting of Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes. COMPLETE.


**Too Far Gone**

**Author:** Lady Sam Mallory

**Disclaimers: **Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

**Special Thanks to:** My Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

**Warnings: **H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

**Spoilers:** None

**Author's Comments:** Hope you enjoy it.!

* * *

"I've always wanted to know something," John admits looking back and forth between Lestrade and Sherlock.

Lestrade smiles over his pint and asks, "What would that be?"

"Look, I know that it sounds pretty stupid, but I just can't stop wondering about it. How did Sherlock become the world's only consulting detective to New Scotland Yard?" John inquires, restlessly shifting his sore legs under him.

They had run all over bloody London for the past four days before cracking the case several hours ago. Lestrade needed a drink. John liked the idea, and Sherlock was too amped up to simply go back to the flat.

"Pay attention, John," Sherlock berates the doctor. "I already told you that I created the job."

John shakes his head. "No, I know that. I want to know how you and Lestrade met," John insists waving his arm at Sherlock's assumptions.

Sherlock's brows draw inward in consternation. It seems odd to him that John would even care, but the man keeps telling him that these kinds of talks are required in a friendship. Perhaps, this is one of those times.

"Is this one of those required friendship times?" Sherlock asks surreptitiously leaning towards John.

John smiles, mentally patting himself on the back for coming up with that idea. "Yes," he answers succinctly laughing at the new frown lines popping up on Sherlock's face.

"Very well," Sherlock relents. "Tell him, Lestrade."

Lestrade startles at the mention of his name. "Really?" He requests confirmation from the lanky detective who gives it. "Okay, then. Here we go," Lestrade announces as he takes another swig or two of his ale.

"It was a dark and cold rainy night…" Lestrade begins.

"Sod off," John curses at him laughing.

Sherlock stops looking around the pub and relays to John, "He's serious. It was a dark, cold, rainy night."

John waves a hand in apology, "Well, then, by all means continue."

* * *

_Lestrade leaps from his sedan and races towards the location from where the 999 call came in. There was a constable down, and he was the first to arrive on the scene. _

"_Bloody hell," he swears upon seeing the downed officer. He turns left and right watching intently for anything out of place. _

_By the time he checks for a pulse rate, he knows that the constable is dead. He bows his head momentarily and closes his eyes, a brief moment of respect for a fallen lawman. _

_Tilting his head to the side, he sees the blood spatter extends well beyond what would be expected. Lestrade stands up, but remains hunched over slightly as he leads with his weapon and follows the splatter patterns. _

_There are directional blood drops leading away from the crime scene, so he traces them to an abandoned warehouse about 400 meters to the north. He calls it in and continues what he considers to be pursuit of a fleeing suspect. _

_He enters the warehouse, following the blood drops as they move farther away from the body. He scans left and then right trying to find more clues, but the trail has gone cold. _

"_I can find him for you, if you want, but it'll cost you ₤20," a lone voice from the darkness offers. _

_Lestrade pivots quickly aiming his weapon at the disembodied voice. _

"_Prefer not to get shot, though," the voice calls out again. _

Lestrade adjusts his aim as the voice provides additional information on its location. "Show yourself," he orders firmly.

Lestrade takes another swig of ale and looks over at John. "You can imagine my surprise when this kid steps out. I thought he was a bloody teenager. He let me pat him down to make sure he wasn't carrying, but that was about it."

John nods, a smile on his face as he imagines the meeting.

"What's your name, kid?" Lestrade asks impatiently after he's assured himself that the kid has no weapons.

"_I'm older than I look. You can call me Sherlock," the kid replies quietly. "Do you want my help or not?" _

_Lestrade looks the kid over and takes a deep breath. "Now how exactly are you gonna do that?" He asks skeptically. _

"_I observe things about people. Always have," Sherlock tells the dark haired man. _

"That was back before the hair turned. I was younger then," Lestrade jokes openly, running a hand a bit self-consciously over his hair.

"Wait, you've gone grey in less than five years?" John asks with a huge grin on his face.

"He has," Sherlock tells him in complete seriousness. "According to the Detective Inspector, I am the reason that his hair turned grey."

Lestrade laughs heartily. "Ain't that the truth!"

John laughs and beckons Lestrade to continue.

"I look at this kid and can't help but wonder what the hell he's on? Unfortunately, that was closer to the truth than I like to admit," Lestrade explains to John.

"I could tell you about yourself, if you need proof," Sherlock states, his eyes glowing with youthful exuberance and perhaps a bit of something else.

"_Fine, kid. What do you know?" Lestrade caves, turning to leave the warehouse. _

_Sherlock pauses for a moment. "Shall we start with the obvious? I know that you are about 45 and are married and not just to your job, which you've been at for over 20 years. You're a smoker but would like to quit; you have at least one child, wait two children, both girls. You work hard at your job and are actually pretty good at it. Is that enough to start?" Sherlock asks the detective openly. _

_Lestrade, for his part, looks a bit shell shocked, "How did you do that?" _

"_I told you that I observe," Sherlock reminds, becoming a bit annoyed. "Look, I need the money." _

"_Tell me how you knew that stuff. Did you check me out?" Lestrade demands, his hand resting on the gun he had replaced in the holster. _

"_Don't be an idiot. Okay, I know that you're about 45 years old by the appearance of your skin. It has fine wrinkles, which develop over a lifetime as well as a loss of elasticity, which is noticeable, but not detrimental at this point." _

"_You've obviously been in law enforcement for at least 20 years by the way you hold your weapon when clearing a space. By your stance I know that you were trained prior to the Hungerford Massacre of 1987. I also surprised you, and your first instinct was not to shoot, also indicative of a seasoned veteran."_

"_You have two daughters, because not only do you have several long fine strands of hair on your coat, but you also have several deep scuff marks on your shoes from where they stand on them."_

"_Smoker because your nail beds are yellow from nicotine stains. Trying to quit because you are wearing a patch on your wrist, I admit I caught a glimpse of it, but you've also touched the pocket where you kept your cigarettes four times since we started this conversation," Sherlock rattles off the information quickly. _

_It is important that he impress the investigator, as he desperately needs the funds that this detective inspector could provide. _

_Lestrade removes his hand from his holstered gun and offers it to the young man in front of him, "That's a neat trick. So what can you tell me about the shooter?" _

* * *

"I found the shooter, but Lestrade didn't want to pay me," Sherlock informs John, his face a mask of emotional detachment.

John pats him on the shoulder and takes a swig of his ale then immediately downs the rest of it. "Well, Greg. I bet I can guess why you didn't want to give him the money," John challenges the Detective Inspector.

Sherlock leans forward in his chair, "Really, John. It's not that important."

John smiles knowingly. "You needed it to buy cocaine for your seven percent solution injections," John informs Sherlock of knowledge that the man was absolutely certain he did not have.

Sherlock gapes at John who laughs sadly.

"You were an addict, Sherlock. I know I was surprised when Lestrade conducted the drug search in the flat, but that was the day after we met. I've noticed a few things since then," John admits freely.

"Such as?" Lestrade inquires of the doctor while Sherlock remains conspicuously quiet.

John looks at Sherlock questioningly before answering when he sees Sherlock's approving nod.

"Several months ago, when you were shot in the arm and I stitched it up for you, there were old track mark scars. They fade, but they don't always go away," John instructs the taller detective.

Sherlock's stunned countenance is worth all the hassles of this sodding case.

Lestrade sits up and takes notice, "Did you just say shot?"

John and Sherlock turn to him as one replying, "It was nothing."

"And the seven percent solution?" Sherlock questions the knowing doctor.

John looks a bit abashed when he confesses, "I found some notes mixed in with one of your experiments. You left them on top of my laptop. When I pulled the laptop out, they fell on the floor. I picked them up, and that's when I saw your notes leading to the discovery of the seven percent perfect solution."

John studies Sherlock's face and can hold his tongue no longer. "So you really owe a debt of gratitude to Greg," he prompts quietly. "He kept you from getting too far gone."

Lestrade laughs out loud at the expression of exasperation on Sherlock's face.

"Maybe, he spends too much time with you," Lestrade suggests playfully.

Sherlock's eyes narrow suspiciously, and he glances at John fondly before answering.

"Maybe, he's just that good," Sherlock answers, his eyes never leaving John's face.

**The End**


End file.
